University of Virginia Library

SAT. 1. Semel insaniuimus.

Labeo reserues a long nayle for the nonce
To wound my Margēt through ten leaues at once
Much worse then Aristarchus his blacke Pile,
That pierc'd olde Homers side;
And makes such faces that mee seemes I see
Some foule Megæra in the Tragedie,
Threatning her twined snakes at Tantales Ghost;
Or the grim visage of some frowning post
The crab-tree Porter of the Guild-Hall gates
Whiles he his frightfull Beetle eleuates;
His angry eyne looke all so glaring bright,
Like th'hunted Badger in a moonelesse night
Or like a painted staring Saracin;
His cheeks change hew like th'ayre-fed vermins skin
Now red, now pale, and swolne aboue his eyes
Like to the old Colossian ymageries,
But when he doth of my recanting heare,
Away ye angrie fires, and frostes of feare;
Giue place vnto his hopefull tempered thought
That yeelds to peace, ere euer peace be sought;
Then let mee now repent mee of my rage;
For writing Satyres in so righteous age;
Whereas I should haue strok't her towardly head,
And cry'd Euæe in my Satyres stead,
Sith now not one of thousand does amisse,
Was neuer age I weene so pure as this,
As pure as olde Labulla from the Baynes,
As pure as through-fare Channels when it raynes,
As pure as is a Black-mores face by night,
As dung clad skin of dying Heraclite.
Seeke ouer all the world, and tell mee where,
Thou find'st a proud man, or a flatterer:
A theefe, a drunkard or a parricide,
A lechour, lyer, or what vice beside,
Marchants are no whit couetous of late,
Nor make no mart of Time, gaine of Deceit,
Patrons, are honest now, ore they of olde,
Can now no benefice be bought nor sold,
Giue him a gelding, or some two-yeares tithe,
For he all bribes and Simony defi'the.
Is not one Pick-thanke stirring in the Court,
That seld was free till now by all report,
But some one, like a claw-backe parasite,
Pick't mothes from his masters cloake in sight,
Whiles he could picke out both his eyes for need;
Nor now no more smell-feast Vitellio,
Smiles on his master for a meale or two;
And loues him in his maw, loaths in his heart,
Yet soothes, and yeas, and Nayes on eyther part.
Tattelius the new-come traueller,
With his disguised cote, and ringed care,
Trampling the Burses Marble twise a day,
Tells nothing but starke truths I dare well say,
Nor would he haue them knowne for any thing,
Tho all the vault of his loud murmur ring;
Not one man tells a lye of all the yeare
Except the Almanacke or the Chronicler,
But not a man of all the damned-crue
For hils of gold would sweare the thing vntrue,
Pansophus now though all in a cold swatt
Dares venture through the feared Castle-gate,
Albee the faithfull Oracles haue forsayne,
The wisest Sanator shall there be slaine,
That made him long keepe home as well it might,
Till now he hopeth of some wiser wight.
The vale of Stand-gate, or the Suters hill,
Or westerne playne are free from feared ill,
Let him that hath nought, feare nought I areed;
But he that hath ought; by him; and God speed;
Nor drunken Dennis doth by breake of day
Stumble into blinde Tauernes by the way,
And reele mee homeward at the Euening starre,
Or ride more easely in his neighbours chayre,
Well might these checks haue fitted former times
And shouldred angry Skeltons breath-lesse rimes;
Ere Chrysalus had bar'd the common boxe,
Which earst he pick't to store his priuate stocks;
But now hath all with vantage paid againe;
And locks and plates what doth behind remaine;
When earst our dry-soul'd Syres so lauish were,
To charge whole boots-full to their friends wel-fare;
Now shalt thou neuer see the salt beset
With a big-bellyed Gallon Flagonet.
Of an ebbe Cruce must thirsty Silen sip,
That's all forestalled by his vpper lip;
Somewhat it was that made his paunch so peare,
His girdle fell ten ynches in a yeare.
Or when old gouty beld-rid Euclio
To his officious factor fayre could show,
His name in margent of some olde cast bill
And say; Lo whom I named in my will
Whiles hee beleeues and looking for the share,
Tendeth his cumbrous charge with busy care;
For but a while; For now he sure will die,
By this strange qualme of liberalitie,
Great thanks he giues: but God him sheild & saue
From euer gayning by his masters graue,
Onely liue long and he is well repayd,
And weats his forced cheeks whiles thus he said,
Some strong-smeld Onion shall stirre his eyes
Rather then no salt teares shall then arise,
So lookes he like a Marble toward rayne,
And wrings, & smites, & weeps, & wipes againe,
Then turnes his backe and smiles & lookes askance,
Seasoning againe his sowred countenance,
Whiles yet he wearies heauen with daily cryes,
And backward Death with deuout sacrifice
That they would now his tedious ghost bereauen,
And wisheth, well, that wish't no worse then heauen
When Zoylus was sicke, he knew not where
Saue his wrought night-cap, and laune Pillow-bere.
Kind fooles, they made him sick that made him fine,
Take those away, and ther's his medicine:
Or Gellia wore a veluet Mastick-patch
Vpon her temples when no tooth did ache,
When Beauty was her Reume I soone espide,
Nor could her plaister cure her of her pride,
These vices were, but now they ceas'd of long,
Then why did I a righteous age that wrong,
I would repent mee were it not too late
Were not the Angry world preiudicate
If all the seuens penitentiall
Or thousand white wands might me ought auaile,
If Trent or Thames could scoure my foule offence
And set mee in my former innocence
I would at last repent me of my rage,
Now; beare my wrong, I thine, O righteous age.
As for fine wits an hundreth thousand fold
Passeth our age what euer times of olde
For in that Puis-nè world; our Syres of long
Could hardly wagge their too-vnweldy tongue
As pined Crowes and Parrats can doe now,
When hoary age did bend their wrinckled brow;
And now of late did many a learned man
Serue thirty yeares Prenti-ship with Priscian,
But now can euery Nouice speake with ease,
The far-fetch'd language of Th-Antipodes
Would'st thou the tongues that earst were learned hight
Tho our wise age hath wipt them of their right;
Would'st thou the Courtly Three in most request
Or the two barbarous neighbours of the west?
Bibinus selfe can haue ten tongues in one
Tho in all Ten, not one good tongue alone.
And can deepe skill ly smothering within
Whiles neither smoke nor flame discerned bin,
Shall it not be a wild-figg in a wall
Or fited Brimstone in a Minerall?
Doe thou disdaine O ouer-learned age
The tongue-ty'de silence of that Samian sage;
Forth ye fine wits, and rush into the presse
And for the cloyed world your workes addresse,
Is not a Gnat, nor Fly, nor seely Ant
But a fine wit can make an Elephant;
Should Bandels Throstle die without a song?
Or Adamantius my Dog be laid along,
Downe in some ditch without his Exequies,
Or Epitaphs, or mournefull Elegies?
Folly it selfe, and baldnes may be praised,
And sweet conceyts from filthy obiects raysed;
VVhat do not fine witts dare to vndertake?
What dare fine wits doe for honors sake?
But why doth Balbus his deade-doing quill
Perch in his rusty scabbard all the while,
His golden Fleece ore-growne with moldy hore
As tho he had his witty works forswore,
Belike of late now Balbus hath no need,
Nor now belike his shrinking shoulders dread
The Catch-poles fist. The Presse may still remaine
And breath, till Balbus be in debt againe,
Soone may that bee; so I had silent beene,
And not thus rak't vp quiet crimes vnseene.
Silence is safe, when saying stirreth sore
And makes the stirred Puddle stinke the more.
Shall the controller of proud Nemesis
In lawlesse rage vpbrayd ech others vice,
While no man seeketh to reflect the wrong
And crub the rauge of his mis-ruly tongue?
By the two crownes of Pernasse euer-greene,
And by the clouen head of Hippocrene
As I true Poet am; I here auow
(So solemnly kist he his Lawrell bow)
If that bold Satyre vnreuenged be
For this so saucy and foule iniurie:
So Labeo weens it my eternall shame
To proue I neuer earnd a Poets name;
But would I be a Poet if I might,
To rub my brow three daies, and wake three nights,
And bite my nayles, and scrat my dullard head
And curse the backward Muses on my bed
About one peeuish syllable: Which out-sought
I take vp Thales ioy, saue for fore-thought
How it shall please ech Ale-knights censuring eye,
And hang'd my head for feare they deeme awry;
Whiles thred-bare Martiall turnes his merry note
To beg of Rufus a cast winter cote;
Whiles hungry Marot leapeth at a Beane
And dyeth like a staru'd Cappucien;
Go Ariost, and gape for what may fall
From Trencher of a flattring Cardinall,
And if thou gettest but a Pedants fee
Thy bed, thy board, and courser liuerye,
O honor farre beyond a Brazen shrine
To sit with Tarleton on an Ale-posts signe:
Who had but liued in Angustus daies
T'had beene some honor to be crown'd with Bayes,
VVhen Lucan streaked on his Marble-bed
To thinke of Cæsar, and great Pompeys deed;
Or when Archelaus shau'd his mourning head
Soone as he heard Stesichorus was dead.
At least would some good body of the rest,
Set a Gold-pen on their bay-wreathed Crest.
Or would their face in stamped coyne expresse,
As did the Mytelens their Poetesse.
Now as it is, beshrew him if he might,
That would his browes with Cæsars Laurell dight.
Tho what ayl'd mee, I might not well as they
Rake vp some for-worne tales that smothered lay
In chimny corners smok'd with winter-fires
To read and rocke asleepe our drouzy sires,
No man his threshold better knowes, then I
Brutes first arriuall, and first victory,
Saint Georges Sorrell, or his crosse of blood,
Arthurs round Bord, or Caledonian wood,
Or holy battels of bold Charlemaine,
What were his knights did Salems siege maintaine;
How the mad Riuall of fayre Angelice.
VVas Phisick't from the new-found Paradice;
High-stories they; which with their swelling straine
Haue riuen Frontoes braod Rehearsall-Plane,
But so to fill vp bookes both backe and side
What needs it? Are there not enow beside.
O age well thriuen and well fortunate,
When ech man hath a Muse appropriate,
And shee like to some seruile eare-boar'd slaue
Must play and sing when, and what he would haue,
Would that were all: small fault in number lies,
Were not the feare from whence it should arise,
But can it be ought but a spurious seede,
That grows so rife in such vnlikely speed.
Sith Pontian left his barren wife at home,
And spent two yeares at Venice and at Rome,
Returned, heares his blessing askt of three
Cries out, O Iulian law, Adulterie.
Tho Labeo reaches right: (who can deny,)
The true straynes of Heroicke Poesie,
For he can tell how fury reft his sense
And Phœbus fild him with intelligence,
He can implore the heathen Deities,
To guide his bold and busy enterprise;
Or filch whole Pages at a clap for need
From honest Petrarch, clad in English weed;
While big But Ohs ech stranzae can begin,
Whose trunke and tayle, sluttish and hartlesse bin;
He knows the grace of that new elegance,
Which sweet Philisides fetch't of late from France,
That well beseem'd his high-stil'd Arcady,
Tho others marre it with much liberty;
In Epithets to ioyne two words in one,
Forsooth for Adiectiues cannot stand alone,
As a great Poet could of Bacchus say,
That he was Semele-femori-gena.
Lastly he names the spirit of Astrophell,
Now hath not Labeo done wondrous well?
But ere his Muse her weapon learne to weild.
Or dance a sober Pirrhicke in the field,
Or marching wade in blood vp to the knees,
Her Arma Virûm goes by two degrees,
The shepe-cote first hath bene her nursery
Where she hath worne her ydle infancy,
And in hy startups walk't the pastur'd plaines
To tend her tasked heard that there remaines
And winded still a pipe of Ote or Brere
Striuing for wages who the praise shall beare;
As did whilere the homely Carmelite
Following Virgil and he Theocrite;
Or else hath bene in Venus Chamber traind
To play with Cupid, till shee had attain'd
To comment well vpon a beauteous face,
Then was she fitt for an Heroicke place;
As wittie Pontan in great earnest saed
His Mistres breasts were like two weights of lead,
Another thinks her teeth might likened bee
To two fayer rankes of pales of yuorie,
To fence in sure the wild beast of her tongue,
From eyther going farre, or going wrong;
Her grinders like two Chalk-stones in a mill,
which shall with time and wearing wax as ill
As olde Catillaes which wont euery night,
Lay vp her hollow pegs till next day light.
And with them grinds fost-simpring all the day,
When least her laughter should her gums bewray
Her hands must hide her mouth if she but smile;
Fayne would she seeme all frixe and frolicke still;
Her forehead fayre is like a brazen hill
Whose wrinckled furrows which her age doth breed
Are dawbed full of Venice chalke for need,
Her eyes like siluer saucers fayre beset,
With shining Amber and with shady-Iet
Her lids like Cupids-bowcase where he hides
The weapons which doth wound the wanton-eyde,
Her chin like Pindus or Pernassus hill
Where down descends th'oreflowing stream doth fil
The well of her fayre mouth. Ech hath his praise,
Who would not but wed Poets now a daies.